Steampunk Assassin
by godhunter847
Summary: When Sam McClaine tries to save the President, he finds out more, much more, about the nature of the Assassin Brotherhood. Secrets that could kill him... And those he loves...
1. Sam

**Hello there. Yes I see you there, reading my author's note. Just to let you know, this story is an imagined reality in which the Union lost the US Civil War and the South won. None of the events portrayed following the conclusion of the war actually occurred and none of this is canon. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 1**

Sam McClaine could see _everything_. Everything was outlined in shades of blue and white. But right now, he wasn't paying attention to that. He was looking at the figure in gold, on the other side of the city. He could see him because of the goggles on his head, which focused and unfocused with minute hydraulic pressure. Sam's friend and fellow Assassin Leon Davies had developed them for him. It used small levers attached to both his index fingers to increase or decrease the pressure around the lenses, forcing them out or in, thus acting as small telescopes.

Slowly, Sam stood, pulling his grey hood up around his head. In addition to wearing the lenses, he also wore a metal mask roughly formed to the line of his jaw. It was made of a single piece of metal and covered his mouth and nose, with small breathing holes for the nose approximately where his nostrils would be. Sam wore a graphite colored button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a button vest colored a shade lighter than that. The only touch of color on Sam's outfight was the red ascot he wore around his collar. The hood was part of the dress shirt. He also wore fingerless leather gloves for which to climb, workers' slacks, and a pair of leather boots. He had Double Hidden Blades, each with its own Hookblade in place of the standard blade. And to his back was strapped his sword, Excalibur. One of the legendary Swords of Eden.

Sam jumped off of a large five-story bookbinding company, spinning to grab the ledge before he died. He had to protect the president. The figure had just begun walking off toward the White House. However, without a cushioned landing, he had a hard time getting down. So, instead of a Leap of Faith, he used another innovation developed by Leon, the Hook Dart.

Settling, he whipped his left arm around and the eagle-shaped hook from his Hookblade flew off toward the opposite building, fifteen feet away. It impacted with a solid _thunk_, embedding itself a half dozen inches in the red brick masonry. Tentatively, then with greater force, Sam pulled the metal chain coming out of his bracer. It was solid. Letting go of the bookbinding building, he swung down. About halfway across, he shot his right arm out, firing the other hook back at the bookbinding shop. As it impacted, he yanked the other out of the building he had first shot it at, a small, sleek steam engine attached to his back quickly winding it back up. Using this system, he quickly reached the cobblestones below. With the sound of a piece of wood hitting another, he landed, pulling his hooks back into his bracers, which were made of leather, held together with iron fasteners and spare cogs. He stood and fixed his hood, which had fallen down around his shoulders.

It had been 30 years since the fall of the Union. After the secession of the southern states in 1861, and the loss of the war four years later, the United States had split into seven separate nations. Thirty years of constant war and death and turmoil. In thirty years, the great United States, victors over the British Empire, could not hold itself together, and it had suffered for it. But the ruins of the States had allies. The British, for one, were allied with them. They were not bitter about their defeat. The Native Americans also supported the President, if only to avoid further conflict on their land. And, as always, the US had the support of its French allies. In addition to those, it also had the support of the Republic of California, and the Grand Kingdom of New England. Their enemies were the Confederate States of America, the Confederation of the Mississippi, and the Duchy of New Jersey.

Sam set off in the direction of the White House, unsheathing his Hidden Blades as he went. Despite the Assassin philosophy of only interfering to stop Templars, but Sam couldn't let this one survive. The President was his father.**  
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	2. Capture and the President

**Hey guys, short chapter, I know, they're the worst. But the way I see it, it made more sense to divide the next part like this. Sorry...**

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**Chapter 2**

Sam traversed the half-mile distance in a few minutes, leaping and using his Hook Darts to dodge and get around civilians. Some looked in shock, whereas others, who had seen his antics before, only looked with mild curiosity. He reached the would-be assassin just as they reached the White House courtyard, twenty yards from the White House Porch. Just as he tackled the man, his father, President Vincent McClaine, came rushing out, half a dozen advisers trailing behind.

"You, young man, get off of him! I say un-hand that man." Vincent yelled, his bright orange moustache and beard bristling, much like an agitated hedgehog.

Sam, using a voice modulator Leon had invented, spoke as he stood up, hoisting the attacker by the collar. His father didn't know he was an Assassin. In fact, his father didn't know that he was even still alive. "Sir, I caught this attacker. I believe he was trying to infiltrate the White House and take your life. Ever since the Split, as you know, there have been many attempts on your life, and the lives of your predecessors." Sam shifted his weight to his left foot, prepared to run if need be. He needed to maintain secrecy and not compromise the Order, a tenet of the Creed. Already he had badly exposed himself to civilians. Many would return to their homes, telling their spouses and children of a 'hooded, masked vigilante' prowling the streets. Noticing his wandering mind, Sam returned to the present moment, where his father was giving a lecture to him.

"Sir, one such as yourself shouldn't be so quick to judge. This young boy," Vincent gestured to the 'assassin,' who couldn't have been more than nineteen, "is a simple courier. Please, release him."

"Of course sir. I had better go then." Sam turned to the courier, "I apologize for disrupting your delivery." He turned back to the president and gave a curt bow, a customary sign of respect. And with that, he spun around and ran off, dodging citizens as before. He had to reach the Washington Assassin HQ.


	3. Plans

**Chapter 3**

Sam dropped into the sewers just five minutes later. As he grasped the inset rungs, he pulled the iron manhole cover back over the 4-foot diameter hole. Glancing down, he dropped the remaining fifteen feet into the brick-lined tunnel below. As he gathered his bearings, his goggles dimly lit the interior with a muted green glow, the result of a type of luminescent glass Leon had developed.

Like the average sewage system, the accessible areas consisted of a wide river of sewage, flanked on both sides by concrete walkways that were the width of two men. However, similarly to Paris and London, Washington's sewage systems followed the exact course of the streets and alleyways above, making a trip through them quite confusing, considering how there were hundreds of square miles of sewers. This was where the Assassin's had hidden their headquarters.

Sam began walking north, past grated pipes leaking weak streams of sewage and wooden doors leading to inspectors' quarters and maintenance passages. He made a series of turns and then stopped as he entered a large circular room. In the center of the room was a circular concrete island dominated by a marble tower that reached all the way to the ceiling. Massive support pillars circled the island, upholding the tons of earth and city above.

Searching the ceiling, he found the large metal ring hanging from the roof. He fired his Hook Dart at it, reeling it in as he swung across the gap of water and waste. As he landed, he moved around to the north east corner and stopped. Before him, on the wall, was a small mechanism composed of a glass skull embedded in the center of the Assassin Seal. Reaching out, he grasped the eyes, pulled, and then let go. The skull snapped back and broke apart, reforming upside down. Finally, on silent hinges, the hidden door swung open to reveal the room inside.

It had a cozy appearance about it. Inside the 20 ft by 20 ft space was a large Oriental rug that dominated the floor. There were also some lightly padded recliners, in which some of the other Assassins were relaxing, speaking in hushed tones or silently reading. One side of the room was dominated by a large bookcase that reached to the landing above, while the opposite side consisted of a several small fireplaces and two bomb-crafting stations. The fires cast a soft orange glow around the room, lighting the space, but not making it too bright.

"Brother!" cried a female voice. A female Assassin, wearing a loose wool shirt that exposed her navel and tight-fitting wool pants, ran forward and embraced Sam. After a few moments, she let go and took a half-step back.

Sam was a full head taller than the woman. While Sam had just celebrated his twenty-second birthday that previous week, the woman, with hair the color and shade of a ripe apple and eyes as green as emeralds, looked to be about seventeen. And while Sam wore two Hidden Blades, as one of the American Mentor's lieutenants, she wore only one. Her loose wool shirt was held down by leather strips, used as overalls, sewn into her pants. Similarly to Sam, she wore fingerless leather gloves. However, she wore no mask and wore her own pair of goggles around her thin neck. Her angular face was sprinkled with a multitude of freckles.

"Sara, it's good to see you. I missed you while I was away." Sam embraced his sister again.

He had recently been on a diplomatic mission to the Black Hills to meet with the leader of the united Indian territories that composed the seventh "nation" of the former United States and its territories. The chief, named Running Wind, had wanted to negotiate a treaty between the united clans and the American Assassins, effectively tying up ends for both sides, as neither had to worry about attacks from the other any longer.

"Oi! Sam? Is tha' you?"

A large man emerged from behind a statue of one of the Great Mentors, Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Unlike Sam and Sara, whose "robes" were a mixture of colors, this man's suit was completely black. He was a few inches taller than Sam (which was tall, as Sam was 6'8") and with a neatly-trimmed black beard streaked with grey and white. His clothing was similar to Sam's, save that he wore a long, multi-layered coat the swept the ground as he walked. He wore an eye patch over his left eye and his right hand had been replaced with a moveable replacement of iron rods and wooden pegs. (Imagine Anakin's hand from the end of Star Wars: Episode II)

"Leon! My brother-in-arms! Or," he said, looking at Leon's prosthesis, "arm…"

"Okay, Mister Big-Shot Negotiator think just 'cause he's back, he can be an ass? Is tha' how it is?"

"No, of course not. I'm an ass _all_ the time. I never stop. It's like, my full-time job. Y'know?" Sam walked over into the kitchen and grabbed an apple, taking a hefty bite as he walked. "Oh, and Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"How about you and I go train?"

At the mention of this, everyone in the room looked up. Several lower-ranking recruits looked on with interest, while the others began placing bets on who would win. Because, all rank and command chain aside, everyone knew that Sam and Sara were the best fighters in the Guild.

Minutes later, Sam and Sara, along with a procession of Assassins, many of which had betting tables with them, walked north through the sewer system. They soon arrived at a large antechamber, similar to the one encircling the hideout, but with a solid floor all around. In the center was a large circular ring chalked onto the cement. Surrounding the ring were tripwires that entangled anyone who got too close. This was to ensure that the winner was clearly decided, and also to keep potential interference out.

As Sam and Sara approached the ring, the each took off their most obvious weapons: Sam, his sword, Hidden Blades, and dual-revolvers. Sara removed her own Hidden Blade, but pulled a machete out of her sheath, as well as a tomahawk and rifle strapped to her back. But this had nothing to say for any concealed weapons. They each walked to, and stood at, opposite ends. At the center was an inlaid iron etching of the American Assassin Guild emblem: the traditional emblem with three stars at the base and eagle's wings sprouting from the tip and arching up in preparation of flight.

"You ready?" Sam yelled across the 10 ft. space.

"Are you?" Sara retorted.

With this, one of the spectator Assassins rang a bell, which commenced the battle. Immediately, Sam dashed forward, springing on the tips of his toes. Sara responded by sending clouds of small, poison-tipped darts toward him, which he dodged with ease. Which isn't to say for the small throwing knife that she had followed them up with. It took him by surprise and impacted his shoulder, sticking solidly. Grunting, Sam yanked it out and smiled. It was an evil smile. And Sara soon discovered its purpose. Sam began round house-kicking both his legs alternately. As he kicked, razor-sharp steel discs began flying out, swerving around. Sara jumped back and flipped, narrowly missing both as she soared over one while the other flew over her. They continued to fight like this for hours, scraping, cutting, and injuring each other, yet neither yielding.

* * *

"Do you think they're ready?" the shadowed, hooded figure asked.

"She is patient and wise, whilst he is brash and naïve. Yet he is quite strong, I believe one of the strongest I've ever seen. His skills and… compatibility are matched only by the likes of Altaïr and Ezio. We'll take the boy, but allow the girl to grow." the American Mentor replied.

"When do we do it?"

"Tonight, while he sleeps. He will awake in the morning with no recollection of the event, only with a new and innate sense of the power he shall contain. Then, we shall begin his training."

The conversation finished, both men turned back to the bout, waiting, as all were, for the winner.


	4. Transformation

**Hey guys! I see that some of you have added this to your favorite stories list, and that warms my heart. But please! If you have any grievances, with anything I have written, please tell me so.**

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**Chapter 4**

Sam woke up feeling like a horse had kicked him in the face. He was on his bed at the top of the Assassin HQ. He went over to the wall, feeling the coolness of the marble blocks that composed the Hideout. It was cool to the touch. Drunkenly, he walked over and pulled his robes from his hook on the wall and donned them, leaving his goggles, mask, and weapons where they lie. He could here several of the others moving and shuffling downstairs. He then walked over to the mirror hanging on his wall and began to comb his ginger hair. But as he dragged the iron teeth through his wavy locks, he noticed something strange. His eyes, instead of being green, as they had before, were now an unnatural crimson that darkened to violet around the pupils. Then, the pain started.

A blinding agony shot through Sam, one which brought him to his knees and left his throat dry and cracked. His forearms started burning, and were glowing white hot. Red lines began etching themselves all over his arms, forming flowing designs and swirls. It flowed up his arms and down his back in a wave, stopping just above the small of his back. At the same time, a separate pain began in his chins and calves, burning just as hotly as his arms and back. Then, just as suddenly as the pain began, it vanished, fading into a dull throbbing.

Speechless, he ran over to his mirror. His arms, and legs, were covered in swirling red patterns that almost looked like ornate bracers and greaves. The patterns spilled over onto the palms of his hands and tops of his feet. They swirled over his fingers. He quickly took off his shirt to examine the rest of his body. On his upper arms, shoulders, and chest were more swirling patterns, only these didn't form anything recognizable, and they were black. However, on his back, there were two grey eagle's wings, tattooed as if they were at rest. They completely covered his back.

"Are you surprised?"

The suddenness of the voice made Sam flinch. Slowly, he turned around, and there, in his doorway, stood the Mentor, leader of the American Assassins. No one knew his real name, so everyone just called him Mentor. He was tall and dark skinned, indicating that he was Native American. His face was gaunt and haggard from years of service to the Creed and the Order. He had a neatly trimmed grey beard and greasy, shoulder-length white hair. He wore his hood down. It was sewn into an old blue-and-white officers' jacket and a shirt that looked like it had been made during the Revolution. He wore no hidden blade, but had a tomahawk in the shape of an Assassin Emblem clipped to his belt.

"What the hell is this stuff?" Sam asked, holding up his hands for the Mentor to see.

"Ah," said Mentor, "so that's how it will be. Well Sam, I need you to meet me on the National Mall this evening. You and I have some… things to discuss." And with that, the Mentor walked out, leaving Sam alone.

Seriously freaked out, Sam went over to the cupboard in his room and wrapped his arms in white linen gauze and pulled his gloves on, flexing his fingers so that the iron studs settled on his knuckles. He only put on one hidden blade, opting to leave his sword, but refilled his throwing knifes, putting them in specialized holsters on his boots, bands on his upper arms, and on his belt, next to the Assassin Emblem that he wore there. He also stuck his revolvers in their holsters on his belt. Then, he slid down the ladder that connected his loft with the ground below. As he hit the ground, several of the others looked up. Kurt Evans, an Assassin First Level, gave him an appraising nod while Erika Wilde, who was a Master Assassin like Sam, flashed him a grin and a handful of bills, her winnings from yesterday's fight, which Sam had won.

He sat down and pulled out a leather-bound tome: "On the Origin of Species" by Charles Darwin. He cracked it open and began reading. Suddenly, as he turned to the third page, Kurt approached him.

"So, Sam… What happened to your arm?" he said, indicating Sam's right arm.

"Nothing… Just…burned it."

"Oh, okay. It's just, thought it might be weird 'cause I'm not seeing any blood stains."

"Okay… I'm going on patrol." Sam retorted, slamming his book closed. He got up and walked toward the hatch, leaving his sword and second hidden blade upstairs.

"See you tonight…" Kurt said, which caused Sam to hesitate, but he continued, even more persistently, reaching the hatch a few seconds later. But as he turned after exiting, he saw Erika reprimanding Kurt. As the door closed, Sam gave a small smile, hidden behind his mask.

* * *

While Sam patrolled the area, all he could think of was what had happened this morning, and how Kurt had confronted him. Ironically for a country at war with itself, Washington went about its business. Street vendors called out to passerby. Passerby went about their business, enjoying the sunlight. Hatters screamed crazily. Sitting atop the Capitol Building, he unwound the gauze around his arm. It had gotten worse. Red light pulsed down his arms in time with his heart and sparks danced around his fingers. Quickly, he rewound the gauze. Then, he sat. And waited. And thought.

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When dusk began to settle, and Washington was plunged into twilight, Sam leapt down from atop the Capitol Building and strode across the Mall to wait beside the Washington Monument. He figured the Mentor would want to meet here, as the monument sat directly above the Assassin HQ.

Sam waited for twenty minutes. Sighing, he pulled out his timepiece, flipping the spring-loaded lid. Inside the bronze casing was an embossed Assassin Emblem with a small flame hovering at the center. Finally, he heard footsteps coming towards him. He turned to see the Mentor walking towards him.

"Ah, Sam. You made it."

"Alright Mentor. Enough of this shit. Tell me what's going on."

"Okay, well it starts with a bit of a story." the Mentor replied.

"I don't care what it st…" Sam paused. He heard rustling behind him. He pulled out one of the revolvers and pointed it up at the tree. "Get down, or get a face full of lead."

Looking away from the Mentor, Sam turned to see Kurt flip out of the tree. Still with the revolver trained on him, Kurt moved over to stand next to the Mentor.

"Well, isn't this nice. Everyone's here." said a disembodied voice. It was deep and had a distinct Italian accent. Then, a man bathed in shadow walked over and stood behind Sam. Instinctively, Sam took a defensive position, bending his knees and flexing his wrist, prepared to extend his hidden blade.

"Not everyone…" Erika Wilde said, walking in to lean on Sam's shoulders. "Aww, you guys started without me? I don't think that's very ni…"

"Enough!" Sam yelled out, his eyes flaring crimson. The gauze on his arm caught fire, falling to shreds. Wisps of fire curled around his fingers and his hair was blown back as if by a strong gust. "I've had…enough. Tell me what is happening to me."

"Well," the Mentor said, "I'll start with a bit of history. As you know, we, humanity, were created by the First Civilization as a workforce. A docile workforce. Yet we rose against them, our gods. Ultimately, they dropped from this world yet lived in our myths and legends. But not before giving us a bit of defense. Without them, we had nothing to protect us from the dangers of the outside world. Sure, we had our intelligence. And for those of us who were hybrids, the Sight. But now, through a specific process, we can do so much more. And you, Sam, as well as everyone here, has been subjected to this process. And that is what has happened to you."

"Samuel," said the shadowed man, "you've been selected to be a part of an elite group of Assassins. You and your compatriots are our last line of defense against the Templars. The ancients called it magic. Those of a later generation called it acts of God. And in modern times, some call it the result of science, the newest face of the phenomena that we have yet to explain. In my time, it was either God, or Satan."

"Okay, but what exact time period are you from?" Sam asked, lowering his revolver away from Kurt.

"Niccoló Machiavelli, at your service." The man emerged from the shadows, which slithered off of him as if of their own accord. He was tall and deeply tanned, obviously from years under the Mediterranean sun. His eyes were dark, with a pronounced Roman nose, and close-cropped black hair that was graying at the temples. "Samuel, you are exceptionally powerful. Your skills are of a caliber unmatched by your contemporaries, and rivaled only by history's greatest Assassins."

"So who are you, truly?" Sam asked the Mentor.

"I am a legend of this nation, a man without a face. I am Ratohnhaké;ton. But most know me as Connor Kenway."

"Okay. So say this is all true. Say I'm not dreaming a horrible dream. What do I have to do?"

"Easy, you'll train with us." Kurt said.

"You'll refine your gift, learn to control it. You can use it to turn the tide of any battle, any war. And in times like these, that shouldn't be too hard." Erika continued.

"Alright then, I'll do it."

"Excellent," Connor said. "Meet us at the top of the Washington Monument tomorrow at noon. There is where we'll begin, and where I'll give you a bit more information." Machiavelli said.

And with that, all departed, Sam, Kurt, and Erika going to the nearest sewer cover to get back to the hideout.


	5. Training: Introduction

**Chapter 5**

The next morning, Sam stood outside of the Washington Monument, hopelessly confused as to how he would ascend to the top of the mass of marble. He had already circled it several times and had found no visible seam to a door or secret entrance. And the use of his hook dart was out of the question. Defiling a national monument was tantamount to treason. Just as he was preparing to give up, Machiavelli approached him from behind.

"Having trouble Samuel?" the Italian asked.

"Yeah, I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to climb this thing." Sam replied.

"Ah, yes. I remember that Ezio often had problems similar to this when I was still in Italia. Think of it objectively. Don't think how do _I_ climb it. Think how this is climbed. How would another, more experienced person climb it?"

"Well," Sam said after a moment, I remember how, growing up in Dublin, I would go out to the forest and climb trees. I would take a dagger and dig it into the tree as a hand- and foothold. But I don't see how that could apply here."

"Look at the stones more closely. See the gaps where there is not mortar. There is a pattern. Use it." And with that, Machiavelli disappeared. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam set to work. Plunging his hidden blades into the cracks between the blocks, Sam clambered up the monument quickly. He reached the summit pyramid in a matter of minutes. Finally, he swung into the topmost window, hitting the floor and rolling.

"Nice entrance." Kurt Evans said, applauding slowly. "Pretty sweet."

Sam surveyed the room. It was small and was pyramidal in shape. A large square hole was cut in the center, with ladders leading down to the next level. The entire inside of the monument was hollow, and filled with dozens of catwalks that circled each area. Then he looked to the catwalk he was standing on. Erika sat opposite him while Kurt hung upside from a chain that dangled from the ceiling. And standing next to him, undetected until this point, stood Marilyn Kaczminski, a known high-ranking Templar agent. Immediately, he swung his legs around, sweeping her own out from under her. He grabbed her by the collar and yanked her face closer to his own, his hidden blade inches from her throat.

"Tell me why I shouldn't end your life right here, Templar." he growled.

"I'll tell you why." Connor said, stepping from the shadows. He rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Come, rise. She is not our enemy."

Sam hesitated, and then retracted his blade. As he stood, he helped Marilyn to her feet. "My apologies Master; I let my instincts take hold of me."

"This isn't a bad thing. Thousands of times in history, instincts, and instincts alone, have saved an Assassin's life. But we have higher knowledge for a reason. And despite its lack of apparent deadliness, it can serve you well in a fight."

"Of course. I shall remember that next time. Now, can you explain to me why this… woman is here?" Sam replied, glancing back to Marilyn.

"Miss Kaczminski is an agent Assassin working for us. She works, indirectly, for the Templars, gathering intelligence on their strength, numbers, influence, and current locations. She's our eyes and ears inside their organization. She's also been subject to the First Civilization Process."

"So she's an Assassin?"

"Oh, yes. Very much so." Marilyn replied.

"Well, Mentor, if you trust her, then as do I." Sam said. "However, there is one thing I've been wondering about."

"What is it Sam?"

"Well, sir, you fought against the Templars during the Revolution. That was well over a hundred years ago. How is it that you're still alive?"

"Ah, yes. I was just about to get to that. You see, the Process has two parts. When you undergo the initial bit of it, any Pieces of Eden you possess will react and transform, becoming something different. Then, if you decide to undergo the second part of the process, one of those Pieces, if you have multiple, will fuse with your body, making you harder to kill, impervious to disease, and, if you don't get killed, immortal. That is how Machiavelli and I are still alive."

"So then why hasn't my sword been affected?"

"Well, pull it out." Kurt said.

Sam reached back and pulled his sword from its sheath. It was medium-length, double-edged, and narrow, tapering off at the tip. The entire surface gleamed gold in the light of the rising sun, save for the hilt. It was wrapped in strips of brown leather. As Sam gripped the hilt, he ran his hands along the swords length. Then, it began to glow.

The bright glow was accompanied by a searing heat which burned the leather off of the hilt. However, it did not affect Sam. A seam appeared along the sword's length, splitting it in two. Then, it literally fell apart. It split completely in half, creating two swords. They began to slither and move, becoming liquid, yet retaining their shape. And after the process was done, Sam held two golden-bladed Chinese swallow swords in his hands. The crossbars of the newly formed blades were silver in color, but were dulled and no longer shined. However, the most striking difference was the hilts. They were now matte black, with etchings and lines that glowed with an electric blue light. The ends curved in the last one and a half inches or so, making a distinctive beak-like pattern.

"Wow, those are actually REALLY awesome!" Kurt said.

"Well Sam, now that that has happened, why don't you sit, and we will begin." Connor said. He sat on the catwalk, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. He breathed in slowly, then, his eyes lit up a dark purple-red. Immediately, a purplish mist began to swirl around them and the temperature in the room dropped drastically. Images began flickering in and out in the mist, scenes of war and destruction and death. And at the center of them all were Assassins from every age and time era through history. All were performing acts that Sam could not explain away, causing explosions, turning adversaries on their own men, seemingly teleporting from place to place.

"Sam, these things bestow on us amazing power. We become like gods when we use it. But, it comes at a price. It often leaves us physically fatigued, sometimes to the point of possible death. But even if you can survive the draining effects, others dangers lie in your path. Sometimes, the power can overwhelm us, and kill us instantly. And for others, the power can take over. It purges their mind of its memories, its thoughts and dreams. You lose your hopes and fears, the ability to love. Then, you become an animal. Your instincts become heightened, and your fight or flight instinct takes over. A word to describe it could be 'feral.' At that point, you're no longer human."

"But we're going to help you prevent that." Marilyn said. She pulled back the sleeve of her coat to reveal her own Process markings, which were a cool mint green. "The colors of your markings help denote how powerful you are. It acts in a sort of rainbow effect. Reds are more powerful than blues, yellows are more powerful than greens, and blacks are more powerful than whites. You have a very bright red. You've got a lot of power in you. Just try and copy what I do." Marilyn snapped her fingers, and a tiny green flame alit there. Sam did the same, and to his astonishment, a similar flame appeared on his finger, though his was red.

"Alright, nice pick up. But let's see if you can do this." And with that, Marilyn flung a throwing knife at Erika. She then threw out her hand, and the patterns on her arm lit up. A moment later, the knife hung suspended in air, slowly rotating inches from Erika's face.

Carefully, Sam stretched out his own hand. Wisps of fire curled around his arm, and his arm began glowing, pulsing shades of red. The knife flew away from Erika and hovered in front of Sam. It turned and rotated slowly. As it sat there, one of Sam's own knives joined it. Then, drops of silvery metal began dripping off the tips of the blades, forming a puddle on the floor. It began to bubble and move, forming a sphere. As it solidified, etchings began to appear on its curved surface, forming coastlines and shores. As Sam stooped to pick it up, he held in his hand a tiny silver globe, about a half-inch in diameter. It glinted in the sunlight.

"This," Sam said, "is wicked cool."


End file.
